


That the Powerful Play Goes On

by waitingtobelit



Series: with starry feet [5]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Marius overly relates to Dead Poets Society and Courfeyrac helps him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That the Powerful Play Goes On

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I wrote this while trying to deal with anxiety of my own, hence the excessive amount of angst here. 
> 
> Possible trigger warnings for: emotional abuse, anxiety, self-esteem issues. Title taken from a line in the movie.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables or Dead Poets Society. This was written for purely recreational purposes.

The peculiar, habitual loyalty of his friends often sneaks up on Marius. He’ll linger in bed after Courfeyrac’s risen for the morning shift, ceiling glazed before his eyes as he counts the ways in which their lives hinge on haphazardly put together tradition. He’ll remember the last Friday night he got to partake in and he’ll smile as he resigns himself to remaining motionless until the absolute last minute before he leaves for his own work. He’ll never trade any of it for the world, mundane though some of their passions may appear.

The ideal Friday night for the majority of their group involves cheap junk food, second-hand DVDs, and, typically, large and improbable cuddle piles. (Especially whenever they can convince Enjolras to join them, which is usually only when he’s worn out from arranging political meetings and protests.) They do go out, of course. Grantaire, Eponine, and Bahorel practically live at the bar, and Cosette and Musichetta have recently discovered a love of karaoke. Yet, for most everyone in their group, nothing quite beats a lazy evening curled up with nowhere to be.

Of course, when they all work different jobs with conflicting schedules, finding the time to be lazy proves laborious indeed.

Tonight, three of them, Marius, Combeferre, and Joly, curl up together on Combeferre’s ragged couch in his even more ragged apartment, perched before the cracked television screen. They are the only ones without previously arranged plans, like Cosette, Jehan, Bossuet, and Musichetta at the karaoke bar, or not on the clock, like Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Grantaire, Eponine, Bahorel, and Enjolras. Joly occasionally leans his head on Combeferre’s shoulder as Combeferre keeps his arm draped across the back of the couch behind Marius’ head. This arrangement suits them well enough, the three of them mellow and comfortable enough with long silences between them.

Between the three of them present now, each clutches a bottle of beer as Joly holds the bowl of extra buttered popcorn close to his chest like it might suddenly sprout fur and leap away for a game of tug of war. Marius, on the right edge of the sofa, leans into Combeferre’s arm, keeping his bottle glued to his lips though he has long since finished his drink. Even with the lavender incense permeating throughout the room and the presence of Combeferre and Joly beside him, Marius shifts on his thighs, unable to find any sort of comfortable position. Yet he’s quiet enough that Joly and Combeferre both keep their gazes glued to the screen.

Marius does take comfort in the fact that Courfeyrac’s shift ends soon enough for him to come by and join them later. Even with the distance of only a couple of hours since they last touched, Marius’ left hand clenches by his side, waiting for its counterpart. His chest especially aches without him, tonight.

Marius had agreed to the choice of _Dead Poets Society_ only because he felt slightly irresponsible as a literature major for never before having watched the movie. He knew snippets and phrases from his peers who quoted it daily in class. These brief moments both intrigued him and made him shudder. He has never been able to explain the sudden dread that overcomes him, always flashing a smile at anyone who caught him after any conversation mentioning the movie. Courfeyrac watched him like a hawk with pursed lips whenever he caught Marius doing this, yet said nothing.

 The moment the credits started, Marius had felt the knot begin to wound itself in the depths of his stomach. Now, they’re in the heart of the movie, a pivotal scene between Neil and his father upon which the story’s outcome balances like a butterfly on its wings. As he puts the empty bottle down on the side table next to him, his hand suddenly heavy as though injected with lead, Marius is all but certain on the outcome of this conversation. The knot in his stomach rises to his chest as his breathing catches in his throat, turning into quick, quiet gasps that more resemble hollowed out whimpers.

_“You have opportunities that I never even dreamt of, and I am not going to let you waste them!”_

He hears the words, but not in the actor’s voice. They climb out from the recesses of his memories, dressed in his grandfather’s gaudy suit and his stern mustache, brandishing about a cane as they remind him again and again of just how great a disappointment he is to the family name. They call him a vagabond just like the father he was never allowed to know. Wearing his grandfather’s cold eyes, the words falter but do not deny the bundle of unopened letters addressed from his father tossed at his feet. Marius feels his nose flair as the air turns stale around him. One hand twists into the fabric of Combeferre’s couch as his vision blurs at the edges.

_“What? What? Tell me what you feel! What is it? Is it more of this, this acting business? Because you can forget that!”_

_“Nothing.”_

He rises from the couch so fast he might have jumped, bolting to the bathroom in the back of the apartment as he blocks out Combeferre and Joly calling his name. He clicks the lock before collapsing on the edge of the tub, burying his face in his hands as shuddering breaths wrack his upper body.

“Marius? Marius, what’s wrong?” Joly’s gentle voice floats through the keyhole of the door.

“Marius, open the door. Please.” Combeferre sounds slightly panicked as he twists at the door handle, the sound of its desperate movements rising like a crescendo with each passing minute.

Marius twists his hands in his hair, taking deep, rattling breaths that only exhaust him more. No one but Courfeyrac and Cosette know his history with his grandfather, and even Cosette doesn’t know about the letters. He does not know that he can make any of them understand; he does not want to burden anyone else with his problems.

The knot in his chest expands almost in time with the pleading voices of Joly and Combeferre. He keeps his head between his wrists as the dark blue tiles of Combeferre’s bathroom gradually blur into an ocean beneath his feet. Marius only wishes he could feel the sharp salt of it on his face, drag his fingers through the foam on the waves while he drifts away from his current state of mind.

Tears occasionally leak onto his cheeks, but he does not cry outright. He focuses instead on reeling in his haggard breaths, as unstable as himself perched on the edge of the tub as he clings to his oceanic fantasy.

Yet all Marius hears are those words, those fictional words that hold so much weight for him in reality. They anchor him as the tides in his mind begin to rise. Memories of shouting and reddened faces blend with memories of a happy, freckled little boy bouncing along in the park with his grandfather. His hands tug at his hair harder as the conflicting emotions within him push down on him like the weight of waves crashing into the shore.

He is useless, he is a constant disappointment. He repeats this to himself under his breath like one of the prayers he used to utter with his grandfather at church. He brings his knees up on the edge of the tub with him and begins to fidget the same way he did in the pews as a child. His grandfather’s frown lingers as it bleeds into tremors crawling beneath Marius’ skin. He can’t stop shaking though he knows he must try. He must always try harder, must always accomplish more with his life even when he yearns for peace and simplicity. His ideals are not enough. He is a stupid boy with aspirations for only idleness. He will meet his ruin with his head too much in the clouds and not enough in the world laid out at his feet. His grandfather’s voice echoes throughout his quivering body. He barely chokes back a sob.

Joly and Combeferre plead with him; they beg him to open the door. Marius only shakes harder the more he attempts to convince himself to listen to his friends. He winces when he brings his feet back to the floor. He whimpers when he attempts to speak.

“I’m sorry Marius. But I’m unlocking this door come hell or high water.”

He listens as Combeferre’s footsteps echo on the floor with the exact, pained determination in his voice.

Guilt seeps in like wayward bath water flung from the edge of a poorly used towel. Marius tangles his hands in his hair harder, to the point where his scalp starts to ache. He is ruining the night for everyone else with his ridiculous problems.

The creek of another door opening startles him so that he almost falls over onto the floor. He catches himself on the side of the tub just as the mingling of two voices reaches him through the keyhole.

“Oh thank God.” Combeferre’s relief jolts him. He grasps on to the shower wall to keep himself steady as his eyes close. His fingers grip the smooth surface as two pairs of footsteps thump against the hallway with the same dull force of his own heart. Marius holds his breath as he allows himself to open his eyes.

“Marius.”

That voice, that gentle, familiar voice, his favorite sound in the whole world, floats to him as though it were a song. Just hearing his own name in such a soft tone begins to unravel the very edges of the knot in his chest, settling throughout him like an herbal balm. He finds the strength to bring himself to his feet as he yearns to reach that beloved voice.

“Marius, please open the door.” Courfeyrac practically whispers though Marius hears every word as clearly as church bells. “If you don’t, I have a hair pin from Combeferre and I know how to use it.”

He almost smiles at that. He owes much to Courfeyrac’s reliable sense of humor as it is. He manages a deep, whole intake of breath just as he makes it to the door to turn the knob.

Marius doesn’t get the chance to speak as Courfeyrac all but tackles him back into the bathroom, encompassing him fully with a grip only an enraged deity could hope to break. Courfeyrac smells like pasta and spilled wine, a typically noxious combination that now appears to Marius like the most heavenly cologne as he clings back to Courfeyrac with equal desperation.

He only catches a brief glimpse of Joly and Combeferre’s pale, distressed faces before Courfeyrac gently shuts the door.

“Later.” Courfeyrac murmurs against the lacquer of sweat on his forehead. “It’s just you and me right now. I’ve got you, lovely one.” 

He keeps his arms wrapped firmly around Marius’ waist as he leads him towards the tub. He pulls away only long enough to settle in as though taking a bath. He tugs at Marius’ hand to pull him onto his lap and into his embrace once more. As he leans his head onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder, Marius inhales with all the desperation of a drowning man bursting through the surface of water.

“I love you.” Courfeyrac declares into his disheveled hair before kissing it. He repeats the words like a mantra as he moves his lips from Marius’ head to his nose to his mouth, rubbing one of his hands without haste across Marius’ back. 

With each kiss, the weight in him lessens. With each stroke of Courfeyrac’s hands, his breathing evens out. Marius’ eyelids flutter as Courfeyrac drags his nose from his cheeks to his neck, nuzzling him with such tenderness that it almost makes Marius weep. He wraps his arms tight around Courfeyrac’s own neck and vows never to let go.

“B-but.” Marius cringes as he stutters, still shaking in spite of Courfeyrac’s presence. “The movie. My grandfather. I’m just. I’m nothing…”

“I am going to burn that movie, and I’m volunteering your grandfather’s house for the scene of our next riot. I mean, protest.” Courfeyrac informs him as he tightens his hold on Marius. When Marius makes no response, he starts to nuzzle him again.

“You are not worthless. You are not stupid. You are not a burden to anyone.” Courfeyrac speaks into the quivering skin of his neck as his hand continues to sooth its way down Marius’ back, punctuating each declaration with an indulgent kiss. “You are the most ridiculous person I know, but more importantly you are intelligent, kind, almost fonder of poetry than you are of me, and have I mentioned yet how easy you make it for people to fall in love with you?”

Marius tilts his head in a smile as he relinquishes to the blush unfurling upon his face. Courfeyrac moves from his neck to bring his hand around to cup Marius’ face.

“Look at me, Marius.” He strokes his thumb across Marius’ lips, evoking more trembling from him. “You have never been a disappointment to me. You never will be.”

Marius feels his heart ache to leap from his chest.

“I could never be fonder of poetry than of you.” Marius leans in to whisper against Courfeyrac’s lips, fearful that he might fly away like a released kite from the sudden lightness in his chest.

“I’m not convinced yet, wee lamb.” He whispers back, dark eyes sparkling. Marius leans in to press their lips together, so caught up in the moment that he doesn’t realize that he has stopped shaking.

“How about now?” He asks, mere centimeters of air separating their parted mouths.

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac tilts his head as though pondering a great philosophical conundrum.  “Not quite.”

Marius kisses Courfeyrac again, with more ferocity as he presses himself against him.

“Still not quite there.” Courfeyrac says with a wicked grin. “Here, let me guide you darling lamb.”

He traces one hand down Marius’ face, coming to rest in the very center of his chest. Marius gasps at the touch, leaning into it before Courfeyrac launches an all-out attack with his fingers, poking and prodding Marius in his most vulnerable spaces as he doubles over in laughter.

“Courfeyrac!” He gasps as he squirms in a vain attempt to get away from the other man’s determined fingers.

“Now that’s much better.” Courfeyrac grins as he continues tickling Marius for a few moments.

Just when Marius assumes it safe to catch his breath, Courfeyrac pulls him down into a passionate kiss that renders him breathless once more. Yet, he doesn’t stop; instead throwing all of himself into their clashing lips like a reckless lover. They push and pull, start and stop amid giggling and shirt-tugging. They make progress and fall behind all at once.

As Courfeyrac kisses the smile back onto his face, as Marius entangles himself further with the man he loves in the tub, the pain from earlier, though still present, recedes to the opacity of cigarette smoke. Marius breathes it in but he does not allow for it to consume him. In Courfeyrac’s embrace he is something, and in the moment that they fall against each other, Marius leaning into Courfyerac’s shoulder as Courfeyrac cradles him and runs his fingers through his hair, it is all that matters.

 


End file.
